Die Like an Eagle (3 page)

I strolled back to the Eagles' side of the field where, in my absence, one of the fathers had fallen off the bleachers and banged his head. No, actually one of the bleacher seats had come off and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground.

“I'll be fine,” he was saying to the two others who were helping him up and dusting him off.

“Let's put that seat back on,” I said.

“No, let's leave it where it fell,” the fallen father said. “Maybe it will inspire Biff to get the bleachers fixed.”

“Fat chance,” another said. “We should probably leave it down there so no one else comes to grief on it. If we just stick it back on the way it was, someone else could really hurt himself.”

“I actually had in mind putting it back properly.” I rummaged through my tote, pulled out a wrench, and then picked up the bolt I could see had fallen on the ground. “I noticed at our last practice that a lot of things out here were falling apart, so I brought some tools. If a couple of you will hold the seat in place, I can bolt it back together.”

We managed to find all but two of the bolts that had fallen out, and luckily I also had a slotted screwdriver large enough to tighten the loose screws on the side supports.

“That should hold for now,” I said. “And I'm sure I have bolts the right size in my workshop. I'll bring some tomorrow to finish this off properly.”

“Wow,” one of the men said. “I don't think I know many women who travel with a full tool kit in their purses.”

“You probably don't know many women blacksmiths,” I said. “Is that Biff's team over in the other dugout, getting ready to practice when we finish?”

“Yeah,” one of the fathers said. “As usual, we get the five-to-six slot, the one that means a lot of us have to leave work early to get the kids here.”

“And Biff's team gets the six-to-whenever slot,” another added. “This time of year, they get at least an extra half hour of daylight, and if you think they're not using it, drop by here at seven thirty and you'll see them still hard at work.”

“Probably not a good idea, dropping by to spy on him,” another said. “That's how I got blackballed.”

“I thought it was because you complained about prices in the Snack Shack.”

“Could be,” the first said. “It's not like he ever tells you why you're out. Suddenly your e-mails don't get answered and you can volunteer to coach or serve on the board all you like, you'll never get picked.”

Michael and Chuck, surrounded by their team, were strolling back toward us. I was struck by the contrast between the Eagles and the group now occupying the first-base dugout. The Eagles, resplendent in their black-and-red uniform t-shirts, were chatting with each other and with the coaches, skipping about, tossing balls back and forth, laughing—they were all smiling and happy. The kids in the dugout were scurrying and anxious, jumping when Biff or one of the other coaches barked an order. Not happy kids.

“You know, I have an idea,” I said. “Michael and I live just a few miles down the road. Why don't you all bring the boys over to our house for a while?”

“Against the rules to have outside practices,” one of the fathers said. They all looked anxious, and some of them glanced over their shoulders as if afraid Biff might have heard.

“No, no,” I said. “We're not going to break the league rules. There will be no unauthorized practices.” The anxious faces of the fathers relaxed a little. “But there's nothing wrong with trying to let the boys get to know each other and build up a little more team spirit, is there? Michael and I are having a picnic tonight at our house to welcome some visiting relatives. Why don't you all come? And bring your families?”

“I suppose that could be fun,” one of them said, sounding rather puzzled.

“No actual harm in it,” said another, as if trying to convince himself.

“I'd have to check with the wife,” said a third.

“After all, we should do something to celebrate the start of the holiday,” I said, in case any of them had forgotten that they had both Friday and Monday off due to Founder's Day Weekend, a town and county holiday. “And Michael has set up a pretty nice little baseball field in our backyard. Well, in my parents' cow pasture, which is right across the fence from our backyard. So if the boys brought their bats and gloves—I'm sure they're tired of practicing, but it if they felt like having a little pickup game…?”

Light dawned in the circle of faces.

“Awesome,” one said. As if they'd rehearsed the maneuver, the tight-knit knot of fathers split apart as each one pulled out his cell phone, took a few steps away from the others, and began punching buttons.

“Honey,” I heard one say, “do we have anything on tonight?… Well, can we skip it? We're invited to a baseball team picnic at the Waterstons. Yes, it's important.”

As I strolled toward our car, passing other fathers on their cell phones, I caught scraps of other, similar conversations.

“Great idea,” Michael said. “I might have suggested it myself, but I had no idea we were having a picnic tonight.”

“Well, we are now.” I had pulled out my own cell phone and was speed-dialing again. “Mother? Do you think you could organize a picnic at our house?”

“Of course, dear.” She was almost purring at the idea. Next to decorating, entertaining was Mother's favorite pastime. “When, and for how many people?”

“In about an hour,” I said. “For three or four dozen people on top of however many relatives have come to town for Opening Day. A lot of them kids—we're entertaining the boys' baseball team and their families.”

“About a hundred, then,” she said. “No problem. See you in an hour, dear.”

I hung up to find Michael staring at me and grinning.

“I'm not sure which surprises me more,” he said. “That you just ordered your mother to organize a picnic for a hundred people on an hour's notice, or the fact that she agreed to do it so readily.”

“I didn't order her,” I said. “I asked her. She sounded delighted. But a hundred people—did she think I was lowballing the number of baseball guests, or do we really have forty or fifty relatives in town for Opening Day?”

“Could be,” Michael said. “I'm delighted by how many die-hard baseball fans there are in your family.”

Yes, we had a lot of baseball fans, and also a lot of Josh and Jamie fans. And when my relatives added in the likelihood—which I'd just made a certainty—of having at least one grandiose family party during their stay …

“I hope a hundred isn't an underestimate,” I said with a sigh. “And that not too many of them are planning to stay at our house.”

“We'll manage,” Michael said. “I'd better go round up our three.”

“Three?” I echoed. “Oh, right—we're giving Adam Burke a ride. Shall I call his grandparents to ask if he can come to the picnic?”

“He was coming over after practice anyway for a playdate,” Michael said. “Why don't you call and invite them to the picnic? I'm sure Minerva and the chief would both enjoy it.”

With that he strolled off toward the dugout.

I pulled out my cell phone and was about to call Minerva Burke, Adam's grandmother. But it was Thursday. And 6:00
P.M.
Minerva was director of the New Life Baptist Church's justly famous gospel choir, and Thursday evenings from six to eight were one of their regular practice times. So instead I called Chief Burke.

“Hi, it's Meg,” I said when he answered. “Nothing's wrong,” I added, because I'd long ago figured out that the chief was a bit of a worrywart when it came to his grandkids. “Adam's playdate with Josh and Jamie is still on, but I wanted to tell you that we're having a big picnic for visiting relatives, and a lot of the kids on the team are coming with their families, and you and Minerva are more than welcome to join us when you're free.”

“Thank you kindly,” he said. “We wouldn't be able to get there until after choir practice, but if you think it will still be going on then, we'd be delighted to visit a while before we take Adam home.”

“We'll see you sometime after eight, then,” I said. “And Adam's brothers are welcome, too. The more the merrier.” And then, since the chief seemed to be in a mellow mood, I decided to lead up to a question that had just occurred to me. “And since we've got a bunch of sports-crazy kids coming, all armed with the equipment they brought to practice, it's possible that baseball may occur. It'll be nice to have another witness that it's just a pickup game, in case Biff Brown accuses of us of having an illicit practice.”

“I will be happy to defend the Eagles' honor should the occasion arise,” he said. “I see you've made Mr. Brown's acquaintance.”

“Not formally,” I said. “But his reputation precedes him. Does Biff have anything to do with Adam getting traded onto the Eagles?”

“He has everything to do with it,” the chief said. “The boy shows signs of being a handy little ball player—”

“I'd noticed,” I put in.

“Thank you. And there was no way in Hades Minerva and I were going to let Biff anywhere near him. I had a word with Michael, just to say that I'd rather have Adam playing for him, with a couple of kids he knew well, and we cooked up the carpool scheme to justify it. But I didn't give Michael the whole story because—well, I hate to speak ill of someone, and I thought I'd give him—and you—the chance to form your own opinions of Mr. Brown.”

“I'm afraid my opinion is already a negative one,” I said. “And I've never even spoken to the man. Although I've been trying to, ever since Randall assigned me the job of making sure Brown Construction fulfilled the terms of its contract with the town of Caerphilly.”

“Good luck with that,” the chief said. “Because you're going to need it. See you this evening.”

I hung up and was about to head back to the Twinmobile, as we called the van we'd acquired when the boys were born. But as I turned, I almost collided with a woman who had been hovering nearby.

“Sorry,” I said. And then I frowned slightly, because it occurred to me to wonder what she was doing here. She wasn't an Eagle mother—I knew all of them. Which meant she had probably dropped off one of the Stoats.

So what was she doing sneaking up behind me and eavesdropping on my conversation with the chief? Probably planning to tattle on us to Biff, I realized, as she backed away from me slightly, in the direction of the Stoats dugout.

She was short and slender, and looked to be about my age, although her hair was graying and she was huddled into a thick brown sweater jacket as if braced against extreme cold, even though it was a warm April day. Was she ill? Her face was unlined, but pale and drawn. She was wearing her right arm in a sling, and in its folds I could see that her fingers emerged from a white cast or possibly a very bulky bandage.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She shook her head, then turned and fled back to the parking lot. I saw her get into a battered, far-from-new compact car. But she didn't drive away.

Was she waiting till I left to tell Biff about our picnic plans? Maybe I'd absorbed a little too much of the Eagle fathers' anxiety about Biff. She was probably just waiting out her kid's practice. The ball field was only a couple of miles from our house, but someone who lived at the far side of the county might find it more convenient to stay.

Just then, Michael and the boys came back, and I was plunged into the noisy chaos of making sure all three small Eagles were properly belted in and that their baseball bags were in the back and appeared to contain all the hats, gloves, batting gloves, balls, sunglasses, cleats, and other equipment they'd arrived with. Michael showed up with a small armload of similar items that had been left behind in our dugout.

“We should be able to get all this back to the owners at the picnic,” he said.

I glanced back at the field. I didn't see the woman who'd been eavesdropping. Biff's players were lined up along the first baseline, and he was walking slowly along in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back and a scowl on his face.

Michael followed my line of sight.

“The general inspecting his troops,” he said, sotto voce.

“More like the warden putting the fear of God into the new prisoners,” I said. “Josh and Jamie are never playing on any team he coaches.”

“Agreed,” Michael said, as we climbed into the Twinmobile. “Party time, guys!”

The small Eagles cheered excitedly as we lurched out of the ramshackle parking lot and headed for home.

 

Chapter 3

I wouldn't have asked Mother to organize a party on such short notice if I hadn't been pretty certain she could do it. But when I arrived home and saw the scale of what she'd pulled together, I was impressed. And more than a little suspicious that she'd been planning all along to surprise us with a party.

Someone had strung up a large G
O
E
AGLES!
banner on the front porch, and an even larger E
AGLES
R
ULE!
banner draped the side of the barn. Our entire herd of picnic tables had been deployed in the backyard and covered with plastic tablecloths in black and red—the Eagles' uniform colors. The tables were already half-covered with food, and people were still arriving bearing plates or bowls of food and cans or bottles of beverages. Someone was cooking barbecue somewhere—I couldn't see the grill, but the tangy smell of the sauce filled the yard. And everywhere cheerful people were introducing themselves, as Team Eagle met the family Hollingsworth.

I realized that since I was, at least technically, the hostess, I should probably pitch in to help with some of the preparations. And as Team Mom I should make an effort to get to know all of the family members. And this might be one of my best chances to gather more information on the looming menace of Biff—some of the families had older children who'd played local baseball, so they probably had stories and insights to share.